


The Ties That Bind Us

by dusklightserenade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - After College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Police, Attempted Sexual Assault, Because arguably my depiction of Harry in this fanfic, Consent Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Even though he's an actual adult in this story, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Internalized Homophobia, Is closer to how he was at the beginning of The Philosopher's Stone, M/M, Out of Character, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Assault, Sexual Harassment, This is my first ever fanfic and I'm a sensitive cinnamon roll so please be kind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29681709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dusklightserenade/pseuds/dusklightserenade
Summary: In the wealthiest parts of London, young men are being murdered in their homes in what might be the most brutal way imaginable. Their killer seems to come and go without leaving a trace...Harry Potter is a police officer in the London MET on the killer's case.Tom Riddle is deadly, dangerous and obsessed with him.This... is not going to end well.PLEASE READ THE TAGS. This story will get very dark very quickly. I will be updating this story as and when I am able to write chapters, so please be aware that updates will be highly sporadic. Each chapter will be approximately 6000 words long and there will be 20 chapters in total.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 10
Kudos: 54





	The Ties That Bind Us

Harry Potter stabbed at the keys on his laptop. The bedroom was dark but for the faint light emanating from his screen, illuminating his pale face. Eyes wide, pupils darting back and forth, Harry clicked and typed, pulling up article after article, utterly lost in what he was reading.

A groan came from beside him: "Mmpf... Too bright..."

"Sorry!" Harry whispered. He turned the brightness down further on his laptop. Harry's boyfriend, Seamus, rolled over in bed, pulling their duvet off Harry and up over his head. It was cold in the bedroom in their tiny flat, but Harry hardly noticed.

Just then, a notification popped up on Harry's screen. It was from his go to news source, a blog called _Capital Crime._ The stuff on there was pretty sensationalist, but the blog's author, a journalist called Rita Skeeter, always seemed to have the facts before anyone else. Reluctantly pulling himself from the article he was reading - _NEW AND EXCLUSIVE: CRIME SCENE INFO FROM CHELSEA MURDER_ \- Harry control-clicked. The link opened in a new tab:

_LATEST: NSY FORM TASK-FORCE TO CATCH KILLER_

_According to a London MET officer who wishes to remain anonymous, personnel at New Scotland Yard have organised a task-force in hopes of catching London's latest monster._

_This comes after two young men, David Lawson (22) and Cameron Jay-Hawthorne (24), were found murdered in their homes in Knightsbridge and Chelsea respectively. The brutality with which these two youths were killed and their bodies mutilated has shocked the whole of Britain._

_When I confronted Superintendent Albus Dumbledore on the steps of New Scotland Yard, he admitted that "we are treating the two deaths as connected." However, when I asked if this could be the work of a new serial killer, Dumbledore stated "it is too soon to presume anything."_

_When won't it be too soon, Dumbledore? When all of our sons and brothers are dead?_

_Scotland Yard's new task force is being organised as I write these words. I can exclusively reveal that the task force_ _will be headed by Detective Inspector Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody, a man who has so infamously and publicly clashed with both the law and Superintendent Albus Dumbledore. Let me ask you this, faithful readers: do you believe that a man with a history of INSTABILITY and PARANOIA is fit to lead such a vital investigation?_

_Until this evil killer is caught I will continue to put pressure on the police to release information relating to the ongoing investigation according to the Freedom of Information Act (2000)._

_Sign my petition by clicking_ here _to demand justice for David Lawson and Cameron Jay-Hawthorne by calling for the removal of DI Alastor Moody from Scotland Yard's task force._

Harry bit his lip. He looked at Seamus, but he was fast asleep, his mouth slack and open. Harry had heard of Mad-Eye Moody - he'd heard all the awful rumours, like everyone else in the MET - but they'd never come face to face. In his photos and interviews the man seemed ruthless and aggressive, but Harry couldn't deny he was a good cop. In London's police force, Moody was famous; when he'd been a uniformed officer, he'd topped the list for number of arrests made for three years running, right up until he'd transferred to the detective track. Harry didn't think kicking him off the task force was the way forward.

Just then, Harry's radio buzzed. "Shit, shit, shit!" Harry was supposed to be on call tonight, not wasting time researching a murderer whose case he'd probably never have anything to do with!

Harry jumped out of bed, nearly knocking his laptop to the floor. He had to do an awkward pirouette on one foot so he could catch it - for a moment, Harry worried he'd woken up Seamus, but Seamus just rolled over in bed and snored on, his mouth still hanging open.

Harry glanced out of the window and grimaced. It was pouring with rain; it had been all night, but it was approaching three in the morning now and it was bucketing down harder than ever. He prayed he wouldn't have to stand outside in the downpour.

Harry snatched up his radio and stuck it in his belt. Stumbling around his bedroom, Harry searched for his police-issued windbreaker. Snatching it up off the floor, he fought to get it the right way around in the dark - _There can't be_ three _armholes in this thing, right?_ \- and tiptoed out of his and Seamus' bedroom, closing the door carefully with a soft _click_.

* * *

Harry shivered under the inky black sky, looked up into the heavens and let the rain pour down his face. Water misted up his glasses, glued his curls to his forehead and dripped off the end of his nose. Thank God his radio was waterproof, and they could keep the crime scene log in the tent...

It was just his luck. It was nearly four o'clock now, and he'd been standing out in the open in Richmond Park for almost an hour. It was a freezing night in early February and the sky was starless and still black as pitch. It felt as though the temperature was dropping with every minute that passed: the cold air burnt Harry's chest with every inhalation; his breaths were coming out in icy puffs of smoke, and his uniform had long since been soaked through, even though he was wearing his windbreaker zipped right up to his throat.

"You look like a drowned rat." It was Cedric, standing by Harry's side. Officers in England work in tandem when on duty, even whilst doing menial jobs - like guarding crime scenes, as Harry and Cedric currently were.

Harry snorted and flicked his fringe out of his eyes with a grin. "Yeah, well. You don't look too great either, to be honest."

But this was a downright lie. Cedric, as always, looked utterly perfect. With his sharp jawline, his strong chin and perfect skin, Cedric could have been the inspiration for Michelangelo's _David_. Somehow, his hair had stayed perfectly coiffed through the torrent, and the rain dripping off his lashes only served to make his eyes look brighter.

Cedric raised a disbelieving eyebrow - it was as though he knew exactly what Harry was thinking, and Harry looked away quickly, trying not to blush. He turned his attention to the tent to distract himself from his embarrassment. "How did you say you reckoned he died, then?"

Cedric shrugged. "Drug overdose. Otherwise, exposure, I think."

Harry frowned. "Those bruises, though..."

Harry and the rest of his unit had been called out that night to Richmond Park: the withered body of a poor homeless man had been found under a bush, curled up in the fetal position. Normally, this sort of case would be open and shut, but the problem was that the man's arms were covered in an odd pattern of bruises. Because the bruising was unusually severe, and the man's nose was badly bloodied too, the first responding officer had decided that there was probable cause to treat the death as suspicious. 

Cedric groaned and stamped his feet. "Bloody freezing. Shouldn't even be out here. No way in _hell_ was that bloke murdered. He was probably just a drug addict - the bruises have got to be from him shooting up heroin. You know, like those sores addicts get on their arms from infections."

Harry hummed noncommittally. "I dunno." The bruises didn't look like the marks of a drug user to him, but it did seem unlikely that the man had been murdered. Harry regretted bringing up the topic all the same. He wasn't like Cedric - he couldn't talk so carelessly about the man's death when he could still see his face in his mind: his greying skin, his empty, bloodshot eyes. Whatever had brought about the man's death, he'd died in pain, and Harry's stomach churned just thinking about it. _Some cop you make._

Harry tore his eyes from the tent, which was blowing back and forth in the wind. He focused on trying to stop his teeth from chattering instead.

There were six of them out tonight: the FRO, a bloke who Harry had never met; three probationers from Harry's unit, including Cedric; Harry himself, and - _yes, he was_ still _there_ \- Harry's sergeant, Cormac McLaggen, cosied up in their police vehicle, taking a nap. _God, what an arsehole_ , Harry thought grumpily as an icy drop of rainwater slipped under his collar and slid down his back.

Unfortunately for Harry and his unit, the kid who'd found the man's body - he'd been on his way to a house party a couple of streets over - had dialled 999 at two in the morning; that meant most of London’s forensics specialists were at home, fast asleep, and those who were on call tonight were busy with far more suspect scenes than theirs. So Harry and the probationers were stuck here in the wind and the rain, guarding the crime scene from any meddlesome civilians who might wander by, until forensics could finally turned up to relieve them - or, worst case scenario, until their shift ended.

"At home, on my bed, right, I've got an electric blanket. All I have to do is press a button and it heats up in about ten seconds and - "

"Don't!" groaned Harry. "You're killing me!" _In more than one way_. Thoughts about Cedric's bed were just as unhelpful as those about electric blankets.

Cedric Diggory was a couple of years older than Harry, but he'd just joined the borough, straight from training at Soverign Gate; he'd been in the army for a couple of years before that.

Cedric had taken a liking to Harry as soon as he'd met him. The attention had been refreshing; most of the blokes Harry worked with treated him like a circus freak, or just ignored him entirely. It was an unavoidable side effect of being the only gay officer at the station, Harry figured. Harry wasn't open about his sexuality, but he didn't exactly try to hide it, either. 

When Cedric had first met him, he'd asked Harry if he wanted to grab a drink after work. Harry had said yes without thinking twice, but had then spent the rest of the day worrying if Cedric knew if he was gay or not, and whether their meet-up was supposed to be a date. When they'd got to _The Old Ship_ , Cedric had bought them both a pint of Guinness - (Harry didn't really drink beer, but he hadn't complained. It was a nice gesture, after all). As soon as they'd sat down, Harry blurted out the truth about his sexuality in a nervous babble. He'd half expected Cedric to get up and leave, but Cedric had just laughed. Then he'd told Harry that he knew and that he himself was bisexual.

Harry liked Cedric. He liked his wide smile and his easy laugh. They'd slept together a couple of times, before Harry and Seamus had got together. Sure, Cedric had been very secretive about their nighttime dates, and he'd never really stood up for him when the blokes at work treated him badly, but that was okay - Cedric didn't owe him anything. He probably had his own problems to worry about. Besides, Harry could take care of himself.

Harry liked Cedric most of all because when he'd told him that he couldn't deal with messing around with a colleague anymore he'd actually backed off. Sometimes, Harry felt like Cedric was the only person in his unit who was on his side; Harry was a Police Constable, but none of the PCs he worked with were out tonight. Normally, the worst assignments went straight to the probationers: the sudden deaths, the shifts at the lock-up - the crime scene guarding jobs...

"Seriously, you shouldn't be here," Cedric said after yet another lengthy session of silent side-by-side shivering.

Harry didn't want to rehash this conversation. He felt like they'd been through it a million times over the past few weeks. Harry began to speak, but Cedric cut him off.

"No, _li_ _sten_. You should just quit. I mean it - screw this! You've got through probation - slogged it for two years. You're a proper PC now. All the blokes you started with have been given decent cases. Boot's just jumped on that string of burglaries with Zabini. Hell, even Macmillan's shadowing the guys taking on that drugs case. They've all moved on, and McLaggen's still got you stuck with us probbies."

"I can't quit. I'm not starting at the bottom in some other borough. No way."

"Too much pride, that's your problem. You're too stubborn. Anyway, I know why this is happening - why you've been working here for two years longer than I have and they're still giving you grunt work - "

"Come on, we've been over this - "

"Just listen to me for once, alright? It's because you're gay, it is! It's the _culture_. It's messed up, really messed up, but that's what these guys are like. You must know that."

Harry dodged Cedric's comment. "But you're bi. You've never come out at work, either. How can they all know I'm gay without me saying anything, but not know you're bi?"

Cedric barked a laugh. "Jesus, Potter, are you kidding me? I don't know how to say this, but... Well, I fit in with them. I can pretend to be one of them. You... Well, you're about half my height and you're prettier than my ex-girlfriend - and that's saying something. Honestly, you can be so naive sometimes."

Harry turned around so fast that he nearly slipped in the mud. "I am _not_ naive, and I am _not_ a girl!"

Cedric held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "I never said - "

"Look," Harry said abruptly. "I know what these guys are like. I hear the comments they make. Do you want to know how many times I've heard one of our _colleagues_ " - Harry sneered the word - "mutter the word 'fag' under their breath? Do you?" Cedric's eyes were wide as he shook his head. "Yes, McLaggen's a dick. Yes, the governor's an old dinosaur. But there's no way they wouldn't promote me just because - just because I'm _me!_ It's the twenty-first century!"

"Just tell me, then - why haven't you been assigned any decent cases?"

Harry sighed, all the wind going out of him. "I don't know. I don't know. I only finished my probationary period last month, anyway. It's way too soon to assume anything."

Cedric looked unconvinced, but didn't reply. He was probably worried Harry was going to blow up at him again. Harry felt guilt start to creep in, but pushed it aside. "Even if you're right, it doesn't change anything. I've just got to keep going. If McLaggen doesn't think I can be a good cop because I'm gay, then I'll show him. I'll keep working my arse off until he sees I can do my job. I've just got to prove it to him."

"Harry," Cedric said quietly. "You _have_ proved it to him. A million times over, even. If he - hell, if _anyone_ at work was going to give you any decent cases, they would have done it by now. I'm - I'm sorry."

And they lapsed into another despondent silence, this one far more depressing than the last. The thing is, Harry knew some of the guys he worked with were homophobes. He was used to being mocked and leered at, but Harry tried to ignore it for the most part. He knew that if he filed a complaint he might as well hand in his notice - that was the reality when the men who you'd be complaining to were part of the problem - and Harry wanted to be a cop, desperately. He loved his job. But Harry couldn’t believe his skipper would actually hold his back because he was gay. There had to be another reason. _McLaggen was an arsehole, but he wasn't that much of an arsehole - right?_

'I'm not giving them the satisfaction of seeing me quit. It's not going to happen.'

Harry just had to stick it out. That was his mantra. Suck it up, do the difficult jobs, prove yourself, over and over and over. _Just keep going, keep going, keep going…_

If his job was a battle of wills, Harry was going to _win_.

* * *

It was nearly five in the morning when the CSIs finally turned up, and, somehow, it was _still_ raining.

Harry was now so cold that it hurt. He could no longer feel his fingers or his toes, or stand to expend the energy that it took to talk to Cedric. The minutes ticked by with agonising slowness...

Then: the squeal of tires, the beam of headlights glancing across the park!

Harry and Cedric looked up. So did the two probbies who'd been helping to guard the scene from the other side of the tent, their fluorescent jackets glinting in the glow of the headlights, shimmering in the rain. Harry hardly dared hope for a reprieve. Twice already he'd seen a car that he'd thought might belong to the forensics team and twice he'd been disappointed.

Harry heard the faint sounds of brakes squeaking through the roar of wind and rain - but by now the storm had picked up so much that Harry actually had to rub at his glasses and squint across the park to see what was going on. A black sedan had pulled up next to their police car - in which PS McLaggen was _still_ fast asleep - and four dark shapes got out, bracing themselves against the blast. One of them seemed to approach the police car and then stopped; Harry suspected they must have realised McLaggen was asleep in the driver's seat. Then, unmistakably, a face turned toward the tent, and toward Harry and Cedric. "That's got to be forensics!" Harry yelled, relief coursing through him, gesturing wildly. Harry wasn't sure Cedric could hear him, but Cedric nodded all the same; Cedric shouted something back to Harry, but the wind swept it away. "I'm gonna go over there!" Harry shouted. Pulling his windbreaker tighter around him, he started jogging toward the kerb, sopping grass squelching under his feet, mud spattering his boots.

Under the trees by the road, three men and one woman were waiting for him; here, there was a little shelter from the rain, and the wind didn't scream so loudly. Harry saw that the woman - a tall, regal lady in her mid-fifties - was the owner of the face he'd spotted from across the park.

"Nice weather!" one of the blokes called as Harry approached.

"Tell me about it," Harry grinned, taking off his glasses to wipe them off on his jacket. Putting them on again, his eyes found the woman's without thinking. Somehow, he sensed she was the one in charge. "PC Potter," Harry said, sticking out his hand.

"Dr. Grubbly-Plank." Dr. Grubbly-Plank shook Harry's hand firmly. "I'm a forensic pathologist, and these are my CSIs - I'm supervising them tonight. Not normal procedure, you understand. I don't get out in the field much these days, but we needed all hands on deck tonight, didn't we, boys?"

At this, there was a round of unenthusiastic affirmations. "You can say that again," a young man sighed, smiling wanly. He had a kind, round face and a nervous look about him.

Dr. Grubbly-Plank hummed. "Yes, Mr. Longbottom here is our blood spatter analyst. More blood, more work, you see - and I must say, we were dealing with a rather... complex scene. Yerse... That's why we were delayed in getting over here."

"Not - not...?" A thrill of excitement and fear shot through Harry, one so great that he could hardly get the words out that he wanted to say. But Dr. Grubbly-Plank seemed to read his mind.

Grubbly-Plank looked shocked. "Oh, no, my boy! Nothing to do with those two murders... My, I hope I'll never see anything like _those_ again, as long as I live..." Dr. Grubbly-Plank seemed to drift off into a reverie - but before Harry could probe any further, she jerked herself out of her daze and continued, clearing her throat. "No, we've just come from a drug deal gone wrong, by the looks of it. But, yes, there was rather a lot of blood, I must say..."

"A hell of a lot," Longbottom sighed.

"Hm, yes. Now!" Grubbly-Plank clapped her hands, startling all four of the men standing around her. "You'll have to brief us on what's been going on here, Potter. We've only been advised of the basics."

Harry knew he should have felt relieved that London's latest monster hadn't killed again - reading about the killer's crimes online always horrified him - but he couldn't help but feel almost... disappointed. The truth was, Harry was almost as thrilled and fascinated by the killer of those two young men as he was terrified of him.

Harry tore his mind back to the present, and began to explain the situation in the park to the CSIs and Dr. Grubbly-Plank. Ten feet away, Cedric was trying to catch his eye; the three probbies had congregated next to their police vehicle, looking desperate to get back home. "Er, that about covers it," Harry finished. "The FRO's in the tent with the crime scene log - but I doubt you'll need to use it. Should be out of here in no time, I reckon."

Harry distinctly heard Longbottom mutter something that sounded like, "Best news I've heard all night!" as Dr. Grubbly-Plank nodded sharply.

"Alright then!" Grubbly-Plank said briskly, rocking back on her feet. Her eyes flicked over to the probbies, who were shivering as they stood by the police car, and DS McLaggen, who was still fast asleep in the driver's seat. She raised an eyebrow at Harry. "Well, Potter, I think it's high time you and your team got home and into bed." She checked her watch. "It's five-forty. You lot change shifts at six, correct?"

"Yes, Ma'am. But, with all due respect, it's our job to guard the scene until you can determine that this man died from natural causes - or otherwise until the day shift turn up."

"Well, frankly, you all look dead on your feet, and you're just not needed anymore. I'm sure we can manage to make sure no early morning joggers stumble into the tent for twenty minutes."

Harry hesitated. He didn't have the strength to argue anymore, but...

"I haven't quite mastered how to use it yet, but my grandson's just bought me a mobile phone. If you give me your number, I'm sure I shall be able to text you and send you an update on what we find. How does that sound?"

Harry stifled a yawn and caved. "Sounds great - thanks. You can get my number off the FRO. He's got all our details on the log."

The CSIs got going toward the tent, bracing themselves against the wind and the rain. As she went, Dr. Grubbly-Plank sent Harry what could've been a small smile over her shoulder, and Harry felt a twinge of solidarity with the brusque woman as he wondered if it might be as isolating being a female crime tech as it was being a gay cop. He wondered if she got to work with any other women at all; there certainly weren't any female police officers at Richmond Station. Harry realised, too, that Dr. Grubbly-Plank could've woken up PS McLaggen, but had chosen to let him handle the situation instead, and for that Harry was grateful, shooting Grubbly-Plank a little wave and a smile as she walked away. The only thing worse than being stuck in the rain at five in the morning was being shouted at in the rain at five in the morning...

Of course, that meant someone still had to wake their skipper up so they could get home - and it sure as hell wasn't going to be the probbies. They were hovering by the police vehicle like a tiny herd of nervous sheep. Even Cedric, who was at least as tall as the towering PS McLaggen, looked reluctant to wake up his sergeant.

Thinking he’d rather be poking a sleeping lion in the eye than doing this, Harry sighed. He walked round to the driver’s window, and rapped. McLaggen's face was smashed against the glass, his mouth hanging open at an unattractive angle. Harry was forcibly reminded of his boyfriend only a few hours ago and pushed the unwelcome comparison from his mind. ‘Sir? Sir?’

McLaggen jumped awake. "What?" he snarled. "Oh, it's you, Potter. Well, what are you waking me up for?"

"The CSIs have just got here. I sent them over to the scene. FRO's still in there."

"Should’ve woken me up earlier," McLaggen grumbled. Harry rolled his eyes internally. He couldn't help but wonder how bad McLaggen's reaction would’ve been if Harry _had_ woken him up any earlier. "Alright, alright. Get everyone in and let’s get out of here. Then I can finally get to bed, thank fuck."

 _But you’ve already been to bed, while we’ve all been shivering our arses off, you wanker_ , Harry thought as he, Cedric, Coote and Peakes all piled into the car. But just then Harry’s irritation melted away as though it hadn’t ever existed: the car was so _warm_. The engine was on, puttering away, and McLaggen had turned up the heating full blast. It was heavenly. Harry felt like groaning in relief, but instead he wasted no time in shucking off his sodden windbreaker and leaning back onto the car seat as though it were made of velvet rather than grime-ridden polyester. Kicking a crisp packet out of the way, Harry stretched his feet out and sighed.

Time passed, and Harry found his thoughts drifting back to the killer at large. Who was he, the man killing all those poor boys like that? Why on Earth would he want to hurt them?

Then, Harry's attention was pulled back to the inside of the car by a loud bellow of laughter. Apparently, everyone was nodding along to something McLaggen had said, but Harry had missed the joke. Harry didn't much care.

"Yeah. Pity we don't have any skirt in our station, though," Coote was saying.

McLaggen shrugged from the front. "Not really. Ever met a woman copper? They're all bikes or dykes."

Harry cringed as everyone in the car hooted with laughter again. Even Cedric joined in a bit.

"Yeah, well, I'd rather be on a unit with a bunch of dykes than a queer," Coote muttered under his breath. "At least they'd be able to take down a perp without worrying about breaking a nail." Peakes snorted, but Harry's insides turned cold.

Harry had heard the guys he worked with say this sort of thing before, but never so openly. They were sitting right next to him! Did they know he'd heard them? Did they _mean_ for him to hear them? Maybe it wasn't McLaggen Harry should've been worrying about after all...

As they drove, the probationers' raucous laughter washed over him as they shared some inside joke. Harry watched the city fly by outside the window as the sky grew lighter, but his eyes skirted over the view without really seeing it at all. All he wanted to do now was to get home.

Soon, they were back at Richmond Station; McLaggen lazily spun the steering wheel and the police car soared into the only empty space in the lot. As everyone piled out, Harry's phone pinged. "Just a minute!" he yelled as he paused to fumble through his pockets for it - but nobody was listening.

When he opened the message, it took him a few moments to decode it. There were spaces at random between each of the words and blank lines inserted in the middle of sentences. It was as if the writer had very poor eyesight, or had never used a phone before. Harry couldn't help but smile.

From: _Unknown Number_

Message: _Grubbly-Plank here. Have had a look. Man's death appears to have been caused by rare disease called HEMOPHILIA. Condition appears to have been severe; has apparently deteriorated very quickly. Nosebleed likely caused by intracranial bleeding; severe bruising is typical. Coroner will determine for certain, but no further reason to treat this death as suspicious. Packing up now; have advised dispatch that next unit will no longer be needed. Ambulance on its way for the body._

"No way," Harry muttered. Hastily, he typed back a reply, then jumped out of the car, slamming the door. He saw McLaggen wave his hand from across the car park and heard the car lock click into place. Harry shouted an update to his colleagues, but none of them turned around apart from Cedric - couldn't the rest of them hear him? Didn't they give a shit? Harry resisted kicking a stray bottle cap on the ground as he walked across the car park.

There was a hold up at the station door. PS McLaggen had opened the door, but he was still standing in the doorway, stopping Harry and the probbies from getting through. Harry could hear the shuffling of papers as McLaggen fumbled around in a drawer, then another...

"What's the hold up, sir?"

"Can't find the bloody - damned - sign in sheet! Some idiot's moved it..." McLaggen slammed a drawer shut with a grunt. "Alright, Potter, you're to find the sheet and sign the car back in. Everyone else, let's get changed and get home, alright?"

Harry stared after his colleagues' backs incredulously. It was tradition that this sort of work - making coffees and teas, washing up cups, _finding sign in sheets_ \- should be assigned to the most junior officer available. Harry was the second senior, next to his sergeant. As McLaggen, Coote and Peakes walked off, all already talking about something else entirely, Cedric turned back. He shot Harry a look that was half sympathy and half 'I told you so.'

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to throw something.

* * *

It took Harry another twenty minutes to find the police vehicle registration sheet and put it back where it belonged - twenty minutes during which he'd been getting steadily more pissed off about the night's events. As Harry scribbled in their car's registration it took all of his self control not to stab the pen right through the paper.

Tonight, Harry had done everything right: while PS McLaggen slept, Harry had helped the FRO protect the crime scene; he’d directed the probbies when they’d been unsure; he’d coordinated with the CSIs and Dr. Grubbly-Plank. Cedric was right. If any of his bosses were going to notice his work, they would’ve done it by now. Harry didn't care about McLaggen's opinion of his any more than he had to - he sure as hell wasn't looking for praise from him - but he cared about his job. More than anything, Harry wanted to be a detective. He wanted to work on homicides and solve real crimes. But, with the way things were going, it didn't seem like that was ever going to happen.

Harry hurried toward the locker room, shifting uncomfortably in his wet uniform as he went. He passed by Cedric, Coote and Peakes on their way out, deep in conversation. As he passed the door to the bullpen he could hear the noise of the night shift at work and felt endlessly glad that he was only on call one night every week - in fact, Harry was so distracted by his thoughts that as he turned the corner to the locker rooms he smacked straight into his boss.

"Ow, shit! Er - sorry, sir!"

"For Chrissakes, Potter," PS McLaggen snarled - even though, Harry thought irritably, it had been just as much his fault as his. And as McLaggen pushed past him on his way out, Harry felt anger rear up inside his like a hissing snake, ready to strike, to spit poison...

"Wait!" Harry shouted. It came out much louder than he'd meant it to.

McLaggen turned around slowly. His eyes were red from exhaustion. He spoke in a careful, clipped tone as though he was fighting not to shout. "You're really fucking pushing it, alright? Whatever you want, it'll have to wait until tomorrow."

"No," Harry snapped, unable to help himself. He stood up as tall as he could. "We're doing this now."

McLaggen began to look even more pissed off, his eyebrows climbing further up his forehead. Harry began to wonder if he’d made a terrible mistake, but pushed the thought aside and ploughed on as McLaggen looked about to begin an angry tirade, clenching his fists, stepping up into Harry's space and hissing, "Alright, listen here - "

"Why haven't you given me any decent cases?" For a moment, McLaggen was blindsided by his change of topic. Harry hurriedly ploughed on. "Macmillan's handling that drug bust. Boot and Zabini are helping out with all those burglaries down on Montague. I'm a good cop, and I think I've proved that I can handle more than guarding crime scenes." Harry looked at McLaggen, waiting for him to respond, but he didn't reply, so Harry added, "I want to take on more responsibility. I swear, I'll do whatever it takes to succeed - sir." Harry tacked on this last word, trying to inject some politeness into his tone.

For another moment, McLaggen stared at Harry coldly. Then he began, "Look. I can't go giving out special treatment - "

"But I'm not asking for - "

"Shut up, Potter! You're overstepping! Now listen. You're not getting in on any of the homicides, the drug ops, the burglaries, whatever. It's not going to happen, alright? I don't think you'd work well with my other officers. You're not a good fit for this station. You're reckless, you're stubborn, you're impulsive. So you can either keep your head down and get on with the work I give you, or you can get the hell out."

Harry looked up - and up, and up - at McLaggen. The taller man was red in the face, practically vibrating with anger, and the tension in his voice suggested he was barely in control of his rage. Later, Harry would wish he’d left the station then - just sucked it up and gone home. But McLaggen was right about one thing: Harry was stubborn, and he was too stubborn to let this go. Inside, he was reeling at the injustice of it all, and anger made him feel invulnerable. "I think you don’t want me here because I’m gay," he bit out.

McLaggen's expression changed. His features twisted with rage so much that he looked beast-like. "No. Fucking. Shit."

Harry had never liked McLaggen - sometimes, he'd even felt he hated him - but he was familiar. Harry had spent hours with him, shadowing him while he worked, getting experience when he was a probbie. Harry had made him countless cups of tea and coffee during long shifts at the lock-up; they'd exchanged niceties on beats together; Harry had even bought McLaggen lunch at a deli, once. Harry had never, ever been afraid of McLaggen... Not like he was now.

McLaggen leaned forward, so much that Harry was forced to back up against the wall, so much that he could feel McLaggen's hot breath on his face. "Listen to me, you little queer." McLaggen put on a high, mocking voice as though he was imitating a little girl rather than a male coworker. "You'll 'do whatever it takes to succeed'? Will you? I tell you what, Potter. You can work on the cocaine bust with Macmillan if you get down on your knees and suck my cock. Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you, faggot?"

Harry reeled back against the wall, his eyes wide, his stomach churning wildly. He felt an absurd urge to laugh. _This is a nightmare. This isn’t really happening. This can’t really be happening..._

"Well? What’s it going to be?"


End file.
